


The Lucky Ones

by RemoCon



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:39:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemoCon/pseuds/RemoCon
Summary: “Michelin,” Flint said simply. “We’re going to get ourselves a star.”





	The Lucky Ones

"I'm not asking to be the love of your life," Silver said. "It's only a bit of chocolate cake."

"The usual, please," Flint repeated for the third time.

"Who passes up a free sample of cake?" Silver wondered aloud, staring forlornly at the small piece he'd placed on the counter.

"It's not free when it's my own shop," Flint snapped. "Now give me the damn bread before I throw you back onto the streets where you belong."

“Fine, fine,” Silver said, throwing his hands up in defeat. Even the first time Flint had seen him do it, he’d known better than to trust it. In the mere month since he’d started working here, this was the fifth time Silver had tried to persuade Flint to get this particular cake. As though Flint hadn’t been the one who’d developed the cake for the shop in the first place!

“All right, that’s enough of that-“ Gates cut in, no doubt seeing the vein throbbing in Flint’s forehead, and in no mood to have to talk him out of firing an otherwise ideal worker just before the holiday weekend. “Here’s your bread, and yesterday’s accounts.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you after close.”

“Aye,” Gates agreed.

For once, Silver had nothing to say, though if he thought the sloppy way he was wiping down the counter made him look busy, he must truly think Flint an idiot, and a Silver trying to pretend he had no interest in the conversation was far more suspicious than when he was butting into it.

Flint took the files and the bag, and resolved to do a second, more thorough background check on Silver as soon as possible.

***

The Walrus Bakery was the sort of quaint corner shop bakery that might have featured on “Top 25 Must See” sort of lists, had it been in a town of any note. As it stood, it was instead the sort that enough locals frequented to keep it open even when tourist season had come to a close in their little island town, and quintessentially European enough that tourists looking for something familiar amongst the local cuisine came in droves when that season was upon them.

On good days, the ten years of his life Flint had poured into making it a success felt worthwhile. On the rest of the days, he was grateful Miranda had insisted on living nine miles away from town where none of his employees could see him throw another bowl at the wall.

It had been a while since one of the good days.

The recurrent headache Flint had taken to calling Silver hadn’t subsided by the time he pulled into the cottage’s driveway. There, sitting on the porch, was the island’s foremost culinary publication (however meaningless a title that was in the world at large), with a giant full cover portrait of Charles Vane, declaring “The Ranger Café” the best coffee shop or bakery to ever grace the island, and a less than helpful note in Eleanor’s writing that just said “Call Me.” Eleanor Guthrie had unquestionably elevated her family’s business to places her father had never dared dream of when he had first slunk to this island in disgrace. She did, however, lack all subtlety and grace when it came to perceived threats to her profits.

Flint crumpled the note in his hand, and very deliberately did not chuck the entire magazine into the garden. Miranda was quite proud of her current crop of flowers.

The house was empty when he entered. His frown deepened. Miranda’s piano lessons usually didn’t start until the afternoon, where the fuck had she gone? He dropped the magazine onto the table by the kitchen, managing to also resist the urge to set it on fire. Eleanor’s note he tossed into the trash.

There was no message on his phone, or post its stuck to the fridge, though Miranda had clearly tidied up a little before she’d left. The last bowl he’d unceremoniously chucked at the wall was sitting nicely in the sink, instead of on the floor where he’d left it. The twinge behind his eyes doubled, and he eyed the bottle of rum sitting on the kitchen table from the night before.

No. He yanked open the odds and ends drawer, and pulled out the bottle of aspirin Miranda had put in there for him. There was work to do.

***

“Do I want to know how many of those you’ve taken?” Miranda asked, her hand gently closing the lid on the aspirin bottle. James started, but did not drop the whisk in his hands.

“I told you not to interrupt me while I’m working in here,” he grunted.

“I realize I’m no pastry chef myself, but darling, it rather looks like you’ve whisked that pour cream to death,” Miranda said, the kindness in her voice like sandpaper to James’s already irritated mind.

“That was on purpose,” he snapped.

“Of course,” she agreed. “Well, I’m sorry for startling you. I’ll go.”

“Wait,” he grabbed her hand, “where were you? You didn’t text me, I was – you didn’t give me a heads up. I could’ve driven you into town.”

Miranda smiled, and turned back into him, resting her palm on top his hand.

“Thomas called a little after you left, wondering if he had forgotten some of his papers here. I went into town to overnight them to him. I always forget how out of sorts you get when he leaves, but it’s quite all right, James. Featherstone’s taxi works perfectly fine.”

“I don’t get out of sorts when Thomas leaves,” James said. “It’s only for five days.”

Miranda looked at him.

“No, I suppose you’ve been out of sorts for a while now,” she said. “Does it have anything to do with that magazine on the coffee table? Or do you still refuse to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“It’s nothing. Silver was just being an annoying shit again this morning, and Eleanor’s gotten up on her high horse,” he said, dropping her hand.

“I see.” Miranda studied him a moment longer, before she said, “You know, we’ll only let you get away with this for so long, James. Sooner, rather than later, you will have to talk to us about whatever it is you’re doing that’s eating away at you like this. Frankly, it’s probably gone on too long as it is.”

“I know,” he said a moment later.

“As long as you do,” she said, pulling him down for a quick kiss. “You have until Thomas comes home to sort yourself out.”

***

Gates arrived at the cottage at 9 o’clock promptly, as he did every night, notes about the day in hand. Flint heard Miranda open the door and welcome him in, offering to take his coat. Gates declined, as he always did.

James wiped his hands off, ignoring the carnage strewn about the kitchen.

“Would either of you like any tea?” Miranda asked, as Flint strode into the hallway.

“We’re fine,” Flint said, pushing Gates towards his office.

“No, thank you ma’am,” Gates said. Flint closed the door a tad more forcefully than necessary, once Gates had taken a seat.

“So, today went decently, all things considered,” Gates began.

“Stop,” Flint commanded, taking a seat across from Gates, his desk, a present from Thomas on their third anniversary, between them. “I don’t give a shit if today was a great day, or the worst day we’ve ever had. We have other things to discuss.”

Gates looked relieved.

“Good, because Flint, that article that came out today about Vane-”

“Fuck Charles Vane,” Flint said, waving his hand dismissively.

“With all due respect, we can’t just-”

“Charles Vane is a hack, who’s on his third shop, and the only reason the first two didn’t kill his career was he had Eleanor Guthrie backing him then, and as we all know, she won’t be there to save him when this one inevitably collapses on him too. Come on, you can’t seriously be worried about Charles Vane?” Flint asked. “Gates, I thought you were better than that.”

“It isn’t just Charles Vane this time. Did you even read the article? They say he’s hired a new chef to create recipes for the bakery this time, that he’s finally given Rackham real management responsibility over their café.  And god knows exactly what that Anne Bonney does, but lord knows she gives me the willies every time I walk by her, so I assume it can’t be good.”

“And?”

“And?” Gates echoed. “There has to be an and?”

“If that’s all you’ve got, like I said we have other things to discuss,” Flint said.

“Fine,” Gates said, “Go on. I’m sure whatever it is must be much more important than our first serious business rival in a decade.”

“Thank you,” Flint said. “Now, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’ve been a little more hands off at the bakery a little while now.”

“Yes, as has the entire staff,” Gates jumped in. “I have to tell you, with The Ranger doing so well, it’s done nothing for morale.”

“That’s what you’re for, isn’t it, my general manager? To make sure things are still running smoothly while I’m away.”

“Aye, but you haven’t exactly made it easy, these last few months. I can’t remember the last time we’ve gone so long without a new product to sell.”

“I’ve got something in the works as we speak-”

“Great!” Gate cut in again. “When will it be ready to be put on the board?”

“Hold on,” Flint said. “That’s only part of what I wanted to talk about. The other part is much, much bigger than that.”

“Bigger than a new product?” Gates said, the doubt evident on his face. “What? Like, a store redesign? It has been a while I suppose.”

“Much bigger than that, my friend,” Flint said, a smile creeping over his face. “I’ve finally convinced them. They’re going to send someone this summer.”

“Ah, yes, them,” Gates said. “Who’s them, exactly?”

“Michelin,” Flint said simply. “We’re going to get ourselves a star.”

Gates burst out laughing, slapping his hand down onto the desk.

“That’s great, that’s the funniest joke you’ve told in a while. Now, come on, what did you really want to say?”

Flint looked at Gates, his expression the same as when he’d told him that he was, in fact, going to open a bakery, and yes, Gates was going to do it with him. Gates’s laughing subsided gradually, and then all at once, his face getting that pinched look when he was sure he was going to have to do more work than anyone could be reasonably expected to do.

“You’re serious,” he said.

“Deadly,” Flint agreed.

“Oh, fuck me.”

**Author's Note:**

> The bakery AU no one asked for, but where it turned out the Urca Gold could totally be swapped out for some Michelin stars. Thanks to thefandomwing for the beta read!


End file.
